


Keep Your Shadow Close to Mine

by sparksfly7



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, there's something about this pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfly7/pseuds/sparksfly7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Cris/Leo fics. Title is after the first one; I think it suits them well.</p><p>Latest: <i>Listen to Me</i> (comfort phone call fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keep Your Shadow Close to Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t say you’re sorry for winning,” Leo says.
> 
> “No,” Cristiano hesitates, “but I’m sorry that you’re unhappy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a long time ago (more than 2 years ago, oh wow) and I swear I posted this here, but I never did. I'm quite fond of it, so I'm doing it now. Better late than never, right?
> 
> Takes place after Real Madrid's 2-1 win over Barcelona in the Supercopa de España (!!!). I took a lot of liberty with...everything in this. (The timing doesn't make any sense whatsoever.) Just go with it.
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://leonaldoobsession.lofter.com/post/1cb433c3_264fb19) by Leonaldo Obsession. Thank you for the hard work!

Cristiano is the last person Leo expected to see when he wanders out of the locker room aimlessly and lets his feet carry him away until he has no idea where he is.

“Leo,” Cristiano says in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“We played a match here,” Leo says shortly.

“I noticed,” Cristiano says, his wry smile not quite reaching his eyes. He takes a close look at Leo and frowns, worry and something else flashing in his eyes.

It looks like pity to Leo, and he hates that. He doesn’t want or need pity from anyone, because feeling sorry – whether for yourself or for someone else – does absolutely nothing. (And he especially doesn’t want pity from Cristiano, but he doesn’t know why. It just feels worse somehow, when Cristiano’s looking at him like that.)

“Leo, it’s late,” Cristiano says gently.

“I know.” Leo’s noticed, and he doesn’t really care, not even if his teammates are assembling a search party for him. He wouldn’t put it past them.

“Leo,” Cristiano says again, and it’s closer to a sigh this time.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with the rest of them?” Leo bites out. “You don’t need to stand here feeling sorry for the enemy.”

“You’re not the enemy, Leo,” Cristiano says, still infuriatingly gentle, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. “And I don’t want to celebrate. I want to be with you.”

That makes Leo deflate somehow. “How did you find me?” he asks, avoiding Cristiano’s concerned eyes.

“My psychic tracking skills,” Cristiano replies. Leo just stares at him. “I didn’t find you on purpose. I just wanted to get some air after Sergio put on this horrible flamenco music, so I went for a walk.”

“Oh.” Leo doesn’t quite believe him. It doesn’t matter anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Cristiano suddenly says. Leo wasn’t exactly waiting for it, but he’s not surprised to hear it.

“You can’t say you’re sorry for winning.”

“No,” Cristiano hesitates, “but I’m sorry that you’re unhappy.”

Leo studies him for a moment, the sincerity in his dark eyes and the worry that’s furrowing his brow. “Next time, don’t score then,” he says, nudging Cristiano’s shoulder.

“Hey, I can’t just stand there and look pretty,” Cristiano says. “Well, that comes to me naturally, but still.”

Leo snorts, but he can’t help it when his lips curve up, just slightly, but enough for Cristiano’s eyes to light up briefly.

“And hey, you’re taking over my job. I mean, that free kick? You’ve obviously been learning from the master.”

“Dinho was a good teacher,” Leo muses, and Cristiano gives a pout that really shouldn’t be effective for anyone under six, but still somehow works on his face.

“Are you going to stay at Madrid tonight?” Cristiano asks.

“Do you want me to?”

Cristiano hesitates for a moment, bites his lip. “Yes,” he says, and then, softer, “I always want you to stay.”

“Not if I win,” Leo says, really beyond the point where he cares if he’s hurting Cristiano’s feelings or not – it’s not a big or important trophy, but it _is_ still a trophy, and it seemed like one that was firmly in their grasp – because he’s the one hurting right now.

“I have my pride,” Cristiano says. “I have too much of it sometimes, but that’s the way I am. You’re not sorry when you beat me either, are you?”

“No,” Leo says honestly. As much as Cristiano means to him, Barça means more, football means more, and he’s never been sorry about that. (And he never will be, but he _is_ sorry when he sees that look on Cristiano’s face, like the earth has been swept from his feet and there’s only darkness, deep and overwhelming, rushing to meet him.) “But – I don’t like seeing you unhappy either.”

“I know,” Cristiano says. He closes the distance between them (and there always is distance, whether physical or emotional now. Leo keeps it because that’s the only way he’s ever known, and maybe, because Cristiano means more to him than he was supposed to. He has no idea why Cristiano keeps it, but maybe the lack of understanding is another force pulling them apart) and envelops Leo in his arms.

Cristiano is warm; he smells like grass and sweat, but Leo doesn’t mind. It’s a smell that he’s known for most of his life, and it’s something that keeps him grounded, reminds him that the man who can do truly exquisite things with his mouth and steals his blanket during the night is also the man who has the capability to destroy his team’s dreams. To destroy _his_ dreams.

“You didn’t shower,” Leo finds himself saying.

“Sorry, do I smell?” Cristiano leans back from him almost self-consciously, but Leo pulls him back. He likes the warmth of Cristiano’s arms, and he doesn’t want to leave them so soon.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

“I didn’t have time. I wanted to see you right away. I thought that you might have left already, and.”

Leo bites his lip. “I wanted to, but…”

Cristiano pulls back from him slightly, just enough so that they can look into each other’s eyes, but not enough to get out of the embrace. “Couldn’t resist the thought of seeing me shirtless, huh?” He grins, a warm, familiar Cristiano grin, and Leo can’t help but smile back, just a little. But it’s enough to make Cristiano’s grin widen, to make the lines around his eyes deepen in a way that means he’s smiling with his heart and not just his mouth.

“You got me,” Leo deadpans.

“It’s okay, Leo.” Cristiano wraps an arm around Leo’s shoulders. “You’re crazy for my body, I totally get that.”

“Why else would I like you?”

Cristiano stares at him with an intense expression, as if he’s studying a mystery he wants to unravel.

“What?” Leo says.

“Nothing,” Cristiano replies with a faint smile. “You’re really tough behind that harmless angel persona, you know? I like that.”

“Harmless angel,” Leo repeats doubtfully. “I think you’re confusing me with Kaká.”

“You know what I mean.” Cristiano waves his hand dismissively. “I wonder why the media thinks you’re all quiet and shy when you’re really…well, not.”

“When I’m really what?” Leo asks, curious.

“You’re really amazing,” Cristiano says quietly.  “I mean, not that you can’t be amazing _and_ quiet,” he says, laughing slightly. Leo can tell that he’s embarrassed, and that just endears him more to Leo. “But I wish they knew that it’s not like you’re explosive on the pitch and reserved off it.”

“We can’t all be explosive on the pitch and off it too,” Leo remarks casually. He softens though, pulls Cristiano closer and kisses him, mouth tentative at first but growing firmer, more heated. Cristiano lets him take control for the kiss for once, tongue tangling lazily with Leo’s, lips pliant against his.

“That’s me,” Cristiano says breathily. “Mr. Explosive.”

Leo laughs, pulls Cristiano’s bottom lip between his teeth for a second before releasing it. He likes how swollen and shiny Cristiano’s lips are, how he’s giving Leo the same look he gives to the goal.

“I can’t say that I’m happy you won,” Leo says quietly, “but I’m still happy to see you like this. Does that…does it make sense?”

Cristiano nods, expression solemn for once. “It makes perfect sense,” he assures Leo, and Leo remembers that another reason he likes Cristiano so much is because, although they’re so different, Cristiano understands him better than most other people.

“Cris,” Leo says. “I—” He wants to say something along the lines of _you’re pretty amazing too_ , or _the only person who’s ever made me feel bad about a loss is you_ , but he ends up blurting out, “Can I stay at your house for the night?”

Cristiano’s eyes widen for a moment before he smiles, bright and warm. “Sure. You left your toothbrush here last time, you know.”

“You left your jacket at my house,” Leo remembers.

“I’ll come get it next time,” Cristiano says, and it’s easy as that. “Will it be okay with Barça? You staying?” His tone is casual, but there’s a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, and Leo wants to smooth it away with his fingers, his lips, wants to kiss Cristiano until he forgets everything, the loss and the distance and the sight of the Bernabéu coming alive with joy and victory, Cristiano grinning with the Supercopa in his arms.

“It’ll be okay,” Leo replies, not even thinking about it really. Tito is not Pep, but he understands Leo enough to know that he needs time and space to deal with losses.

“Will it really?” Cristiano presses, and Leo knows that he’s not talking about Tito anymore.

Leo thinks about it for a moment, thinks about the look on Cristiano’s face when he scored the second goal and the look on Cristiano’s face when he leans in for a kiss, still warm and golden from the post-coital glow. (And, well, because it’s Cristiano, and he’s all infectious warmth and golden skin anyway.)

“It’ll really be okay,” Leo tells him, and Cristiano smiles.


	2. I See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” Leo says unexpectedly.
> 
> “About what? It’s not like you were the one who said those things.” Cristiano runs his hand over his face, suddenly tired for a very different reason than being woken up in the middle of the night. “Just forget it, Leo. People will say what they want to say. It’s always been this way, and it’ll always be this way, so there’s no point getting worked up over it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Sepp Blatter's comments in late 2013, where he praised Leo and made fun of Cristiano right ahead of Ballon d'Or voting. I would post exactly what he said here, but just the recollection of it angers me and I have no desire to search it up and relive my indignant ire. Basically, he said that Leo spends more time on a pitch while Cris is at the hairdresser, that Leo is a "good boy" any mother would love to take home, and Leo is talented while Cris is a "commander". He even walked around in a militant fashion to further mock Cris. I was so angry that I had to write something.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/525516/chapters/2044179), before I started this collection just for Cressi fics.
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://leonaldoobsession.lofter.com/post/1cb433c3_264fb0d) by Leonaldo Obsession. Many thanks to you for translating not just one, but two of these! You're awesome!

Cristiano is woken from a very nice dream of – actually, he doesn’t remember, something with mangos and kites? – whatever he was dreaming about by the rude ringing of his phone. He makes a groaning sound that probably sounds like a dying elephant and wonders if his phone would recover from being thrown across the room, but then he blearily makes out the caller ID and answers with another dying elephant groan.

“My God, why are you calling me at fuck o’clock?”

Leo falters. “I—sorry?”

“I need my beauty sleep, you know.” Cristiano rubs blearily at his eyes. “This had better be important. What, did you have a wet dream about me and couldn’t get back to sleep?”

Most people would probably flounder for a reply to that, but Leo just says, “You wish,” and Cristiano grins.

“Maybe I do,” he says suggestively.

“Cris,” Leo sighs. “We are not having phone sex at – to quote you – fuck o’clock.”

“I could call you back later.”

“Cris.” But Cristiano can hear half a laugh in Leo’s voice. “I called you for something serious.”

Cristiano groans. He’s so not up for serious at fuck o’clock. Phone sex he could totally go for, but actual talking…

“If this is about the match, I already told you that I won’t go after Mascherano and paint WANKER on his car, so I really don’t see—”

“It’s not about that,” Leo cuts him off. “It’s about Blatter. What he said.”

“Oh.” Cristiano is silent for a while. It’s not like he’s thought about what Blatter said nonstop or anything, but with the huge media storm about it and Zidane actually approaching him to tell him that the club would contact FIFA about it, it’s been hard not to think about it. “Leo, I’m really not up for this right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo says unexpectedly.

“About what? It’s not like you were the one who said those things.” Cristiano runs his hand over his face, suddenly tired for a very different reason than being woken up in the middle of the night. “Just forget it, Leo. People will say what they want to say. It’s always been this way, and it’ll always be this way, so there’s no point getting worked up over it.”

“But they’re _wrong_ ,” Leo says, with a ferocity that most people wouldn’t think him capable of. “They’re wrong, and you can’t let them get away with something like that.”

“What am I supposed to do? Sue him?”

“I know a good lawyer,” Leo offers, and Cristiano laughs, only half bitter.

“He wasn’t entirely wrong, you know,” Cristiano remarks offhandedly. “I mean, you _are_ a ‘good boy’, and I wouldn’t mind taking you home.”

“Cris,” Leo sighs again, half-fond, half-exasperated, and then his voice abruptly hardens. “You’re doing it again.”

Cristiano plays dumb. “Doing what?”

“You’re making this a laughing matter so you can pretend you don’t care, when I know you do.”

It figures that there’s no point acting in front of Leo, who knows him all too well and won’t hesitate to call him out on it.

“What does it matter if I care?” Cristiano asks quietly. “If I care, if I get angry, it won’t do me any good. That’s exactly what people want: to get a rise out of me. They can push me all they want, but I’m not going to fall down.”

“I know that,” Leo says. “I really admire you for that.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad for me, you know,” Cristiano says, matter-of-fact. “People may have an exaggerated image of me, but it didn’t come out of nowhere. I’m not exactly the most humble person in the world.”

“Neither am I,” Leo says, and then, “I don’t feel bad for you. I feel bad for _them_ , because they only see what they want to see in you, and they don’t even see you. And you, you—”

“Leo,” Cristiano says softly, and he suddenly wishes so badly that Leo’s here with him, that the distance between Madrid and Barcelona doesn’t feel as vast as it does, almost unbridgeable sometimes. But right now, with Leo calling him in the middle of the night to tell him these things, they don’t feel very far at all. “You see me. My friends and family see me. The people who matter do. And—it’s okay.”

“I hate it when people talk about us like they know us,” Leo says. “They don’t know us at all. They don’t know who we really are, and they’re so eager to label us.”

“Are you tired of being called a humble little angel?” Cristiano teases.

“You and I both know I’m anything but angelic,” Leo replies, and really, just words shouldn’t be able to send a flash of heat through Cristiano like that, but when it comes to Leo, there are few just’s.

“I have to say though,” Cristiano drawls, “I like how everyone thinks you’re so sweet and then you turn into this total wildcat when you’re with me.”

Leo coughs. “You’re the one who likes to leave hickeys like tattoos,” he grumbles. “I got ribbed about the last one by my teammates for two weeks.”

Cristiano grins. He likes the idea of people seeing his marks on Leo, especially that insufferable Neymar who tags after Leo like a lost puppy. Leo is his, and people should back off.

“Did they like my artwork?”

“I wouldn’t call that artwork.”

“I’ll try harder next time,” Cristiano promises.

Leo sighs. “I liked your Twitter message though,” he says. “It was…smart of you.”

“What can I say, I’m a genius.”

“Sure. Right.”

But Cristiano can hear the smile in Leo’s voice, can almost see it even though they’re just talking over the phone. Things are like that between them, and it’s not something they’ve ever talked about, but they both know it perfectly well.

“Some of the points Blatter made were pretty good,” Cristiano says thoughtfully. “Because you know, it wouldn’t hurt you to spend a little more at the hairdresser. Seriously, did you check out the one I recommended last time? Because your hair could use some work.”

“You—” Leo makes a series of spluttering sounds. “There is nothing wrong with my hair.”

Cristiano sighs. “Leo, do you not own a mirror? Or a comb?”

“You threw away my comb last time you came over because you said it ‘causes too much frizz and dangerously increases the chance of split ends’.”

“Well, yeah. That thing was practically a criminal. Did you get it from the dollar store or something?”

Leo is silent for a long moment. “Would you happy if I just let you be my personal hairstylist?” he finally asks.

“Hell, no,” Cristiano snorts. “I don’t want to deal with that mop.”

He can totally picture Leo fuming at the other end of the phone, and really, this is too much fun.

“You’re awfully energetic for someone complaining about how late it is,” Leo says.

“Is it late? I feel like the day’s just begun.”

“Cristiano.”

Leo says his name like a sigh and a laugh and a touch at the same time. It’s kind of amazing how many things he can put into just Cristiano’s name, and how many things he can make Cristiano feel just by hearing it.

“Yes, Lionel?”

“It’s getting rather late,” Leo says, “or early, I guess. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Cristiano says, although he doesn’t want Leo to hang up; he wants to keep talking to him, and count the smiles that he can see but not look at, and maybe if he closes his eyes he can pretend Leo’s right there with him.

“We’ll see each other soon.”

Leo says it the way he always does, a promise, not the casual, thoughtless way other people say it. They say it because that’s just what people say, or because they feel like they should; Leo says it because he means it.

Cristiano loves that about him.

“Okay,” Cristiano says again, and “really, go get a better comb”, and “I see you too, Leo. I see you.”

“Cris,” Leo says softly, and Cristiano can tell he’s smiling. “Stay away from my combs from now on.”

They don’t say goodbye, because they’re not really parting, just waiting for soon to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEVER STOP BEING YOU CRIS, YOU AMAZING PERSON YOU.
> 
>  


	3. Say Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo’s head snaps up, and he almost does a double take at the sight of Cristiano.
> 
> “What are you doing here?” he blurts out.
> 
> Cristiano tilts his head to the side. “I could ask you the same question.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I have nothing against journalists, unless their name is Guillem Balagué. This is based on how he wrote that Cristiano openly mocks Leo in the Real Madrid locker room and calls him a "motherfucker.
> 
> Is there truth in these rumours?
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://weijian135.lofter.com/post/1cc0f819_41c91b7) by [Weijian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Weijian). I think you did a wonderful job conveying the nuances here, so there's no need for such self-criticism. Thank you so much for the hard work!

It’s halftime and the score is 0-0 and Leo knows he won’t be able to break the deadlock. He knows it’s only a friendly and hence the perfect opportunity to experiment with different line-ups – that’s why there is no limit on subs, after all – but he can’t help feeling frustrated that he’s not going to play anymore. His game is finished.

He should be in the locker room with the rest of his team, but he finds himself pacing in a corridor instead, long and silent and empty, perfect for him right now. His mind wanders to a familiar place: the pitch, and he starts analyzing his movements and mistakes. There are far too many of the latter these days.

He doesn’t realize how absorbed he is in his thoughts until a voice breaks through them:

“Having fun?”

Leo’s head snaps up, and he almost does a double take at the sight of Cristiano.

“What are you doing here?” he blurts out.

Cristiano tilts his head to the side. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I asked you first.” After the words come out of his mouth, he realizes he sounds about five, but Cristiano just laughs.

“True,” he concedes. “I was—thinking.”

“Thinking,” Leo repeats, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah. About you, actually.”

“About me?” Leo realizes he’s starting to sound like a parrot, but he’s genuinely taken off guard. He and Cristiano don’t have a tense or hostile relationship like the media would have people believe, but they’re far from friends. Actually, there’s really no relationship between them at all. They respect each other, of course, they acknowledge the skill of the other, but that’s it, really. They don’t have each other’s numbers, they wouldn’t talk to each other outside of a polite “hello” at awards ceremonies and the like.

Cristiano takes a breath. He looks—not nervous, exactly, but something close to it. Leo didn’t know that Cristiano could ever look like he lacked confidence; he usually practically exudes it.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Cristiano says slowly, “about what people have been saying I said about you.”

“Oh.” Leo blinks. He should have seen this coming, really.

There’s a shadow of a scowl on Cristiano’s face now. It’s not directed at Leo, clearly.

“I didn’t—” Cristiano starts, at the same time Leo says, “I know—” They cut off simultaneously and look at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.

“You first,” Cristiano says, but right after, he blurts out, “I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t call you—I wouldn’t insult you like that.”

“I know,” Leo repeats, meaning it as much as he did the first time.

Cristiano stares at him with slightly wide eyes. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Leo says. “I don’t think you’re the type of person to talk badly about people behind their back.”

He doesn’t. He’s heard Gerard and Cesc and even Masche talk about Cristiano, always with respect, and in Gerard’s case, with fondness even. And he’s not stupid; he knows how people like to stir up drama and that they’ll create it when there isn’t enough to work with.

Slowly, a smile spreads on Cristiano’s face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his mouth is bracketed by more lines. Leo has seen Cristiano’s smile across tons of magazine covers and billboards, but he’s never seen this smile before. It’s—he likes it.

“Besides,” Cristiano adds. “If I was going to insult someone, I would have better words to use than ‘motherfucker’.”

Leo finds himself smiling too. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Are you asking me to call you names?” Cristiano asks lightly. “I would totally oblige you, but I wouldn’t want to give those leeches any more material.”

“Is that what you call journalists?”

“It’s one of the names I have for them, yes.”

“You could use some more creativity.”

Cristiano gives that smile again. “Like you? What do you call them?”

“I would tell you,” Leo says solemnly, “but I wouldn’t want it to end up in another book.”

Cristiano laughs. “My lips are sealed,” he tells Leo, mimicking zipping them shut.

“There you are, Leo! Everyone’s been—” Gonzalo cuts off when he sees the two of them together. “Cris?”

“Hey, Pipita,” Cristiano says easily. “You haven’t forgotten me already, have you?”

Gonzalo rolls his eyes. “You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, we were,” Cristiano says solemnly. “You interrupted our duel to the death.”

Gonzalo doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Good thing I came when I did then. Oi capitán, are you going to join us anytime soon or are you determined to finish your duel?”

Leo glances at Cristiano, who winks, like they’re sharing an inside joke. Leo has to stifle another smile. “I guess we can postpone it.”

“Some other day,” Cristiano says, giving a lazy wave before he turns to leave and join his team. Leo watches him go.

“You making friends with Cris now?” Gonzalo asks.

“I—” Leo honestly doesn’t know what to say. That was...unexpected, to say the least, but definitely not unpleasant. “We were just talking.”

“He’s a good guy,” Gonzalo says, something Leo has heard many times, from Gonzalo, from Ángel, from Gerard.

It’s not that he didn’t believe them when they said that, but today he finally saw Cristiano – the real Cristiano, not just CR7 or Cristiano Ronaldo – for himself and he can say, “I know,” with certainty.

“Want his number?” Gonzalo asks, and then laughs out of nowhere. Leo doesn’t even give him a weird look for it; he’s quite used to Gonzalo’s strangeness by now. “I sound like I’m setting you two up.”

Leo groans. “Don’t even go there.”

They walk back to the locker room together, and Leo’s steps feel lighter than usual, his mind clearer and more relaxed. Gonzalo has a hand on the door when Leo says, “Yes.”


	4. From Me to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body swap fic! Cristiano wakes up with a terrible headache...not in his own body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an exam in five hours, so of course I'm not studying. I was going through this word document I have (that I completely forgot the existence of) of my (not) in-progress fills at the kink meme, and I found so many fics (that I completely forgot the existence of)! Wow, am I terrible. I have like a bajillion fills that I started and never came close to finishing, and this is one of them. I wrote this two years ago and I'd totally forgotten about it until I opened it.
> 
> I remember I was so excited about this. *sheepish smile* Too bad it's never going to go anywhere. I probably shouldn't be posting it - I have so little, just a beginning to something that won't ever fulfill its potential, but I'm fond enough of what I have so far to share it.

The first thing that Cristiano thinks is, _Ugh, did anyone get the license plate of that truck?_ He opens his mouth and makes a sound like ughhhhhhhhhhhh. It creeps himself out a little. He sounds like the Grudge, his head is killing him, and he has no idea what happened. The only thing that would make sense is that he got horribly drunk, but he doesn’t drink.

“Are you okay?” someone asks in concern. The voice is vaguely familiar to him, but he can’t put a name to it.

He tries to remember what happened last night, but nothing comes to him at first. He vaguely recollects putting his son to bed, and then standing on the balcony, staring out at the stars. He was thinking about something – wondering what it would be like if his life was easier, if the media wasn’t so harsh to him, if he won more trophies. Then he had laughed it off, turned back and went to lift some weights before bed. (He never saw the glowing light of the shooting star as it streaked across the sky.)

It was stupid to think about _what if’s_ and _if only’s_ , because he has so much already, and he’s really grateful for it, he knows he’s privileged. Anyway, wishing and wondering never did anything.

“Why does my head hurt like a bitch?” he croaks, but something’s off with his voice.

“That’s a good question,” the same person says. Cristiano still can’t tell who it is, but he knows that it’s not one of his friends. “I was wondering that too.”

“Where am I?” Cristiano tries to touch his forehead, but his arm won’t obey him.

“At your house.”

He finally forces his eyes open – the action makes a thousand pinpricks of pain stab at his temples – and he notices that he is definitely not in his house. The furniture is simpler, the wallpaper is all wrong, and none of his stuff is there.

“This isn’t my house.” He definitely notices that he isn’t speaking with his voice. He sounds...softer, and mumblier, with an accent that’s not Portuguese. He should probably be freaking out now, but he feels like his brain isn’t working enough for that. _Maybe I’m dreaming, and it’s like one of those body snatcher movies or something_ , he ponders. _Yeah, I’ve probably been kidnapped by aliens or something._

“Of course it is, Leo,” Xavi says, looking concerned. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Leo?” Cristiano stares at him. What’s Xavi doing here? And why’s he calling Cristiano ‘Leo’? “Why are you calling me that?”

Xavi’s expression of concern shifts into one of slightly anxious worry. “Because that’s your name.”

“No, my name is—” A lance of pain throbs through Cristiano’s temple, and he cuts himself off. He tries to put his feet on the ground (he realizes that he’s on a bed with red and blue sheets. Honestly, who decorated the room? They have horrible taste), and only manages to fall off the bed and land painfully on his ass. “Ow,” he mutters.

He stares at his hands, which are about ten shades lighter than they’re supposed to be, and then tugs at his hair, which is longer, coarser, and much straighter. He tries to stand up, his head spinning. The shelves look higher than they’re supposed to, and he feels awkwardly uncoordinated. He must’ve shrunk half a foot.

“This _is_ one of those alien invasion movies, isn’t it?” he says out loud. “They’ve replaced my body with a hobbit’s.”

“Leo, what are you _talking_ about?” Xavi demands, really looking alarmed now. “Are you okay? Should I call Pep?”

Cristiano doesn’t answer; he’s staring at the mirror. “Holy fucking shit,” he whispers. He hasn’t just turned into a hobbit; he’s turned into the king of them. “This had better be a dream,” he says, staring at Messi’s face – _his_ face – before the floor suddenly comes up to meet him, and man, the distance between him and the ground suddenly seems so short. Couldn’t he at least have gotten someone taller, like Piqué or something?

When Cristiano wakes up, there’s a trio of anxious faces over him. Xavi is nowhere to be seen, replaced by Guardiola, Fàbregas, and Piqué.

“Leo?” Fàbregas whispers tentatively. “Are you okay?” His eyes are big and concerned, and Cristiano thinks that he looks rather like a puppy. A puppy with really horrible facial hair.

“Xavi said you were talking some nonsense and then you fainted,” Piqué says. “Are you coming down with something?” He reaches out a hand that suddenly looks massive to Cristiano and puts it on Cristiano’s forehead. “You’re sweating.”

Cristiano swallows. He doesn’t know what to do. Obviously he can’t tell them the truth – he’d probably end up in a padded cell or something, and it’s not like they’d believe him in a million years.

“What’s wrong, Leo?” Guardiola asks. “Have you been overexerting yourself again? I told you to take it easy.” Cristiano sees concern etched deep in the lines of Guardiola’s face, and for some reason it makes a burst of envy spring up inside him. Mourinho does care about them, but he’s never looked at Cristiano like that, like Cristiano’s closer to a son than a player to him.

“I don’t like taking it easy,” Cristiano mutters. He sees Piqué and Fàbregas exchange a knowing look, and it strikes him that he must sound like Messi saying that.

“Leo,” Guardiola sighs, putting his hand on Cristiano’s arm. “I don’t want you to come to training today, okay? I don’t think you’re sick – you don’t have a temperature or anything, but I want you to take it easy today. Get some sleep, do some relaxing things, just take a break. Everybody knows you need one.”

“Except yourself, apparently,” Piqué adds.

“I don’t want to take a break,” Cristiano protests. “I want to go to training. I want to _play_.” Of course he means that he wants to go to Valdebebas, in _his_ body, with _his_ teammates, but either way, football is football, and Cristiano needs football like he needs air.

“Then you’ll go see the doctor, and I’ll have him prescribe you with a break,” Guardiola says, raising an eyebrow. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Leo.”

“How about you just let me have my way?” Cristiano suggests. “That makes it easier for everybody.” He closes his mouth when he realizes that it’s not exactly something that Messi would say, but the Culés don’t seem to find the remark strange.

“You’ve always had your way, Leo,” Piqué says. “Ever since we were kids. Today’s going to be different.”

“You’re going to stay here,” Fàbregas says, almost like a command. The notion of Cesc Fàbregas giving him commands makes Cristiano want to laugh, and then he realizes that Fàbregas is taller than him now, and the thought of that is so depressing that he scowls.

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” Fàbregas says softly, patting Cristiano’s head. “It’s just one day.”

“One day is a lot,” Cristiano says sullenly. He knows that he’s whining, but he doesn’t care.

“You never change, do you, Leo?” Piqué says fondly. “Even if you’re feeling crappy enough to faint out of nowhere, you just can’t stand the thought of missing practice.”

Cristiano almost snorts at the irony, because they actually think that he’s Messi. He hadn’t been trying to act like Messi at all, and apparently he didn’t need to. The thought that he’s so similar to Messi on some levels makes him…well, he doesn’t really know what to think. He wonders what Messi will do in his body, if he’ll—

“Oh shit,” Cristiano swears again.

“Why do you keep cursing out of nowhere today?” Fàbregas asks.

 _Because my son is alone in my house with your precious flea looking after him, that’s why,_ Cristiano wants to snap at him, but he just buries his face into his hands and mumbles, “I really don’t feel that well,” with that strange Argentine accent that sounds so much more prominent in Messi than Gonzalo or Ángel.

“Poor Leo,” Fàbregas says, ruffling Cristiano’s hair, while Piqué says he’ll go get some cold medication, and Guardiola just looks at Cristiano, lips pursed with concern. “It must be the end of the world if you’re actually _admitting_ that you’re sick.”

The end of the world. Not such a bad description of his life right now at all.


	5. Just a Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Cristiano drawls. “I heard that your boyfriend is coming to Real Madrid.”
> 
> Leo blinks. “I thought he was already at Real Madrid?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fun little fic I wrote while procrastinating.

Leo is wondering whether he should find a show to watch or just get an early night’s sleep when his phone rings. He’s pretty sure he knows who it is, and sure enough, a glance at the Caller ID confirms it.

“So,” Cristiano drawls. “I heard that your boyfriend is coming to Real Madrid.”

Leo blinks. “I thought he was already at Real Madrid?”

“That’s weird. I don’t recall seeing his horrible hair around.”

“You haven’t been looking in the mirror lately? Are you not feeling well?”

“ _Leo_.” It’s half a whine, and it makes Leo smile.

“I feel like we’re not having the same conversation.”

“It’s not my fault you have bad conversational skills.”

“I… Okay.”

“Don’t worry, I more than make up for it with my superb ones.”

“Of course you do,” Leo says wryly. “Did you call just to bless me with these…superb conversational skills?”

“No, I called about the rumours surrounding your boyfriend.”

“Do you really have to refer to yourself in the third person? And in such a weird way too.”

Then again, Cristiano is one of the weirdest people Leo knows, and that’s saying something considering he grew up with Gerard and Cesc.

“What do you mean?” Cristiano sounds confused. “I’m not talking about me.”

If Cristiano were here, Leo would give him an incredulous glare. Since he can’t, he settles for taking a deep breath. “Then who are you talking about?”

“The kid who follows you around like a stray puppy.”

“He’s turning 24 in less than a week. Isn’t the kid thing getting old?”

“Why do you know his birthday off the top of your head?” Cristiano asks suspiciously.

“He has the same birthday as you!”

Leo takes it back – if Cristiano were here, Leo would hit him. He’s not a violent person, but sometimes Cristiano just asks for it.

“Why didn’t you just say Neymar?” Leo asks. “He has a name.”

“You knew who I was talking about,” Cristiano says dismissively.

“I thought you were talking about yourself!”

“Why would I ask you whether I was coming to Real Madrid?” Cristiano scoffs. “That would be a stupid question.”

“You – you’re just—” Leo is at a loss for words.

Cristiano clucks his tongue. “Conversational skills, Leo. Gotta work on those.”

“I’m hanging up on you,” Leo says through gritted teeth.

“So is that a yes?”

“Can you just ask your question like a normal person?”

“Since when was I a normal person?”

“ _Cris_.” It’s half a threat, and it makes Cristiano laugh.

“Fine.” He heaves out a loud sigh. “Is _Neymar_ coming here?”

“Where?” Leo asks, just to mess with Cristiano for once.

“Leo, do you really want to play this game with me?”

That’s a good question. Knowing Cristiano, he could just go around in circles with Leo for the rest of the night, and Leo doesn’t know if he has the energy for that.

“Since when did you believe in every rumour that’s floating around? I mean, if they were true, then you’d be going to PSG and United and who knows where else.”

“You forgot Mars,” Cristiano says, and Leo smiles.

“I wish.”

“You want me to go to another planet? Wouldn’t you miss me?”

Would he miss Cristiano, who takes over Leo’s bathroom counter with hair products when he visits, who calls him at ridiculous hours when he feels like phone sex or just a chat, who tries to buy him a new wardrobe every time they go shopping?

Maybe just a little.

“I don’t know if I’d miss these superb conversations,” Leo says wryly.

“You wound me, Leo.” Cristiano’s voice is full of hurt, and Leo can almost picture the pout on his face. He squeezes his eyes shut to try to block out the image, but he can’t shut off his mind’s eye. Every time Cristiano makes that face, Leo cringes, but he can’t deny that he likes it just a little.

Leo clears his throat. “Would you miss _me_ if you went to Mars?”

“Of course,” Cristiano replies readily, like he’s insulted Leo even asked.

Leo pauses for a beat. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll miss you when the alternative is just my hand.”

The sound that escapes Leo is one that only Cristiano ever elicits from him.

“Or when I’m left talking to myself. That’d get old pretty fast.”

“I thought you love the sound of your own voice.”

“Well, my voice is wonderful like the rest of me, but – I like your voice.”

“Sure you—what?”

“I like your voice,” Cristiano repeats. “It’s…soft.”

“Soft,” Leo echoes.

“In a nice way. And your accent’s cute.”

“Thank you?” Leo is at a loss for words again. Cristiano does that a lot to him.

“And I, for one, would definitely miss our superb conversations.”

Leo’s smiling a little now. “Would you?”

“Mm hmm, even though you spend most of them insulting me.”

“ _I_ spend most of them insulting _you_?”

“See, you’re doing it again.”

“You really want me to hang up on you, don’t you?”

“Not only do you insult me, you threaten me too.”

“Maybe you should be happy to go to Mars, then, to get away from me.”

“No, I like not being away from you,” Cristiano says lightly, and something squeezes in Leo’s chest. Because it’s Cristiano, Leo expects him to follow that up with a dig at Leo’s hair or clothes, but Cristiano stops there, at “you.”

“I like being with you too,” Leo says softly.

“Leo,” Cristiano says again, just his name, but this time with a very different inflection. “Are you ever going to answer my question?”

“What was it again?”

“Lionel Andrés Messi—”

“I’m not messing around with you,” Leo interjects. “I actually can’t remember.” He pitches his voice so that it’s softer. “Remind me again?”

“Are you—” Cristiano abruptly breaks off and continues speaking in a far brisker tone. “Is Neymar transferring to Real Madrid?”

“Not as far as I know. I mean, he seems pretty happy at Barcelona to me.”

“Of course he does,” Cristiano mutters.

“And it would be a terrible loss for the team if he left.”

“Of course it would.”

Leo can’t help his smile now. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure you would trample all over him if he went to Madrid.”

“It’s not my fault he’s like three feet tall.”

“He’s taller than me, you know.”

“I know,” Cristiano says, “but it’s different with you.”

“Why, because you don’t hate me?”

“I don’t hate him either. Stray puppies are to be pitied, not hated.”

“I’m hanging up on you,” Leo says again, but it’s an empty threat and they both know it.

“Well, it’s good to know that the stray puppy won’t be coming here.”

“Oh, so he’s not my boyfriend anymore?”

“I thought I was your boyfriend. Leo, is there something I don’t know about?”

“Cristiano Ronaldo dos San—why is you name so long?”

“If you marry me one day, your name will be very long too.”

Leo is about to splutter, “Why would I ever marry you?” but the words get stuck in his throat.

“But I’m telling you upfront,” Cristiano says. “I don’t accept stray puppies in the house.”

“Will you stop calling Neymar that?” Leo says, exasperated.

“I’ll stop calling him that when he stops tagging after you like one.”

“Should I give Bale some kind of animal nickname too?”

“Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“Cris,” Leo groans.

“That would make it kind of confusing, don’t you think? I mean, I’m already Cris. Also, that’s not an animal.”

“Cristiano…”

“You’re really bad at this nickname thing, aren’t you? You should add that to conversational skills on the list of things you should work on.”

“I’m adding you to that list.”

“You want to work on me?” He can picture Cristiano winking. “Sounds fun.”

“I’m hang—”

“No, you’re not.”

No, he’s not. Cristiano is a huge pain, but Leo can’t deny that he likes him just a little.


	6. Away, Toward, With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has never failed to remember that when they’re on the pitch, they’re on opposite sides, and that a victory for one is a loss for the other. When they’re on the pitch, they’re opponents, adversaries, rivals; that’s just the way it is, that’s all. When they’re off the pitch…well that’s a different matter.
> 
> Cris and Leo during a Clásico match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=5941984#t5941984) at [footballkink2](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/).
> 
> I originally posted this as its own story, but I thought it's short enough that it makes more sense to put it here.

**(i.)** Cris, of all people, knows how physical of a sport football is (he still has the scars to prove it) and that aggression is inevitable in a match (much less a Clásico), but he can’t help a wince as he sees Leo get scythed down for the third time in the past five minutes.

He doesn’t blame Pepe for it, because Pepe’s just doing his job, and Leo would have had all the time in the world to pick out Neymar or Suárez if Pepe hadn’t tackled him. Cris doesn’t want Pepe and Sergio to leave Leo alone – he hasn’t forgotten that Leo is their opponent, _his_ opponent, and no matter how much Leo means to him, he isn’t going to forget that. He has never failed to remember that when they’re on the pitch, they’re on opposite sides, and that a victory for one is a loss for the other. When they’re on the pitch, they’re opponents, adversaries, rivals; that’s just the way it is, that’s all. When they’re off the pitch…well that’s a different matter. Cris has always been very good at compartmentalizing; he has to be.

Even so, he has an urge to tell Sergio a few choice words when he sees him barrelling into Leo. Cris has always had a protective streak. Leo tells him that he’s perfectly capable of protecting himself, and he’s not some damsel in distress that Cris has to rescue, and Cris knows that, okay, he knows that, but he can’t help the hot surge of worry-anger-protectiveness that rises in his gut at the sight of Leo gingerly picking himself off the ground yet again. (Sergio had better watch out. Cris is going to take all his hair products and burn them.)

They’ve made a habit of not talking to or looking at each other during matches, but during a corner, Leo whispers to him out of the corner of his mouth, “Stop glaring at your teammates.”

Cris swears that they could both be ventriloquists at this point; they’re so good at talking with minimal movements of their lips. “I’m not,” he whispers back.

Leo rolls his eyes, and then there’s a big scramble for the ball, and Leo is running down the pitch, leading his team, moving away from him. Always away.

 

 **(ii.)** It’s not like Cris has it easy from the Barcelona defenders. Piqué’s practically breathing down his neck, constantly tailing him like a shadow, and if he shakes off Piqué, there’s Alves or Mascherano or—

There’s always someone in the way. That’s not a problem, really; Cris is used to obstacles in his path. Whether it means fighting off a wall of defenders or battling through a stadium chanting expletives he tries (and fails) not to hear… Well, Cris didn’t become who he is by taking the easy way out. He’s been kicked, again and again, but he’s refused to stay down, again and again. He’s long since accepted the fact that this is how it’s going to be.

That doesn’t mean it’s okay when Leo is the one being kicked. It’s one thing when it’s himself; it’s another thing entirely when it’s Leo. He knows perfectly well that Leo can take care of himself, that Leo doesn’t need his protection, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to offer it. Maybe ‘want’ isn’t even the best word, really, because when it comes to Leo, things often feel like a matter of need rather than want.

He’s thinking that now as he looks at Leo, down in the middle of the pitch, surrounded by red and blue shirts and the dark jackets of the medical staff. Leo’s clutching his thigh in obvious discomfort, his forehead furrowed, the corner of his mouth tugged down. There’s nothing Cris can do but stare at him, because he knows that it wouldn’t just be a bad idea for him to approach Leo, it would probably start a riot.

There’s nothing he can do but look, because despite everything that he and Leo are to each other, everything that they know in the heart if not on the lips, to the rest of the world they’re bitter rivals. And no matter how much he wants to ignore them right now, he can’t forget the spotlights that constantly shine over the two of them.

There’s nothing he can do but look, because on the pitch, in front of countless eyes and cameras, Leo is _look, don’t touch_.

 

 **(iii.)** After some magic spray and a stretch of time that might have been scant minutes or entire seasons, Leo gets up and right back into action. There is still the hint of a limp in his stride and the shadow of a grimace on his face, but being Leo, he orchestrates a counterattack right away and wins a corner.

Piqué is talking to Leo, no doubt asking if he’s okay, his long frame casting Leo’s face into shadow. Cris jerks his eyes away, knowing that it would be suspicious if he kept staring at Leo. None of their teammates know about them, not because they’re ashamed or anything, but because it’s easier if people didn’t know. The less people who know, the safer it is for them. And as much as Cris likes to take risks, this – him and Leo – isn’t something that he would risk.

As if knowing that Cris is thinking about him, Leo glances over at him. Their eyes find each other’s and maintain contact for a split second. Even though they’re both standing in the penalty box, Cris feels too far from Leo, the distance acute and almost tangible between them. It feels that way too often, given how far Madrid and Barcelona are from each other, how far Cris and Leo are from each other, even and especially when they’re on the same pitch.

Leo looks away first.

 

 **(iv.)** Controlling his temper has never been one of Cris’ fortes. It’s something that really got him into some hot water during his earlier years in United, one of the many things that people mocked him for then and now. _Ronaldo is such a drama queen. Ronaldo throws another temper tantrum. Ronaldo forgets that he’s on a pitch, not at the theatre._

The taunts don’t bother him much – well, not anymore. He tells the world (and himself) that he doesn’t care what people say about him, that their hatred only fuels him, but he’s only human. Sometimes he feels like he’s not allowed to be, like he has to be CR7, a star, an icon, a machine, rather than just Cris.

He doesn’t feel that way when he’s with Leo. When the two of them are together, they’re not Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi, they’re just Cris and Leo. He’s thinking about that now, as the referee blows the whistle for halftime and their teams start to file toward the tunnels, frustration in the tense lines of their bodies.

Cris paces himself so he ends up by Leo’s side, their shoulders a whisper apart, their steps matching each other’s as they share a brief walk together before another separation. It seems that they’re always going in different directions.

Leo looks at him – really looks at him – once they’re out of view of the cameras. “You okay?” he asks in a low voice. It’s ridiculous that Leo is asking him that, when it should be the other way around.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Leo shrugs. “You look—off.”

“Maybe you should turn me on,” Cris says with a half-smile that turns into a full one at the look on Leo’s face.

Leo rolls his eyes, but there’s an answering smile in them. “Honestly, you’re just—”

“Hey, _pulgita_ , I know your legs are short but that’s no reason to take an hour to get to the locker room.”

Cris actually quite likes Piqué off the pitch, but he could have strangled him right now. Leo doesn’t take a step away from Cris, but he suddenly feels much farther away. He isn’t Cris’s Leo now anymore, he’s Barcelona’s. He’s still looking at Cris, but he’s not seeing him. He’s still beside Cris, but he’s not with him.

“Oh hey, Cristiano,” Piqué says, looking surprised to see him with Leo. “I didn’t know you and Leo were talking.”

“Yeah.” Cris forces a smile. “You know me, I’m always up for a conversation.”

Piqué grins. “You should let the journalists see the two of you together. They’d have a field day.”

Leo makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. Cris is silent. “Well,” he says after a long pause, glancing at Leo, “see you later.”

“Yeah,” Leo says. “Later.”

Cris walks away, hands curled into fists. By the time he reaches his locker room, there are crescent-shaped marks all over his palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started this fic in October 2014 to fill a prompt calling for over-protective Cris during a Clásico. It started off as that and then kind of took its own turn. I intended this to be a five things fic (in this case, five moments) and the first three parts came out very easily and smoothly, and then I hit a huge block when trying to write the fourth part. Then a long time later I finally managed to write it, but I've made no progress with the fifth part for--the past month?? I don't know how many times I've opened the document, tried to write it, and failed. Story of my writing life lately, basically.
> 
> Anyway, I honestly don't know when - or if - I'll be able to finish this, and I feel like five moments probably won't be enough, so who knows how many more scenes I have to write. I'm quite happy with what I have so far, and I thought I'd share it.


	7. Only in the Darkness Can You See the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to help you,” Cristiano repeats, softer now, the words that he wishes someone would have said to him, all those years ago.
> 
> Cristiano finds a stranger bleeding out in an alley and takes him in. [Mafia AU]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is incomplete and will never be completed, so - proceed with caution. I was going through my WIPs folder and discovered this - I'd totally forgotten about it. The Word doc says it was created in March 2013, so - it's been a very very long time since I wrote this haha. I have absolutely no recollection of writing it at all, but upon digging it up, I think I have enough decent material to share it. Et voici!
> 
> The title is from a Martin Luther King Jr. quote.

Cristiano is fiddling with his iPod, two bags of groceries loped around his wrists, when he sees the trail of blood seeping from the alley that runs through the shortcut he usually takes. His eyes widen and he instinctively freezes, eyes darting everywhere, searching for any potential agents lying in wait.

He forces himself to relax when he notices that there is no one around. Or at least, no one that he can notice. He’s gotten lax over the years, and someone with sufficient stealth training can probably evade his sensing.

 _Breathe_ , he tells himself. _No one is after you. You’re being paranoid_.

He knows that his best bet would be to walk as far away from the blood as possible, but something, some little part of him, doesn’t allow him to do so, and instead he cautiously walks deeper into the alley.

Every muscle in his body is tensed, and his eyes fly over every foot of the alley, wary and on guard. He still doesn’t see or hear anyone though, so he thinks that he’s probably alone. Well, alone with the source of the blood.

“Fucking hell…” Cristiano mutters when he sees the crumpled body slumped against the wall, a pool of crimson around it, spreading by the second.

He doesn’t know how someone can lose that much blood and still be alive, but the body twitches and a moan tears from it.

“Hey,” he starts cautiously, not knowing if the person is conscious enough to take in his words. “Can you hear me?”

The person’s head jerks suddenly, as if pulled by an invisible string, and somewhere amidst all that blood, a pair of dark eyes open and fix on him. Cristiano almost jerks back. There is something so familiar about the expression in those eyes, a cross between a caged animal and a warrior that is determined to fight until his last breath.

He’s never seen this man before, but he’s seen that expression in another set of eyes, on another person who he would have given anything to save, if he had been given the chance.

“My name is Cris,” he says, making up his mind to help this dying stranger. “I’m going to help you. Don’t panic. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

He walks over to the person, ignoring the blood that stains his expensive leather loafers. A frown, speculative instead of panicked, crosses his face once he kneels by the person, trying to decide the best course of action to help him.

“Are you…” the person rasps, in a voice that is soft but distinctly masculine. “Are you with them?”

“No,” Cristiano replies, although he has no idea who ‘them’ is. He looks down on the face stained by blood and dust, a face that is young and pale beneath all the marks of battle. Something clenches in his chest as he sees the dark bangs matted with blood and God knows what else. His appearance threatens to re-open those old wounds in Cristiano, wounds that he thought had healed at last.

“I’m going to help you,” Cristiano repeats, softer now, the words that he wishes someone would have said to him, all those years ago.

 

When Leo wakes up, he feels like he’s lying on a cloud. His body is light and weightless, and there isn’t a single worry or fear in him. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything at all, and he wonders briefly if he’s dead.

“You’re awake,” a strange male voice says, and Leo almost jumps, his eyes flying open. Then he realizes that he can’t move, not even twitch a single muscle besides move his eyelids, and he wonders what drugs he’s been given.

His mind flies, trying to deduce where he can be, who the person talking to him is, how he can get out, but he draws up a blank to all three.

“You shouldn’t move,” the man says. “You were very badly hurt. I’m surprised you survived, to be honest.”

“Who are you?” Leo tries to ask, but only a gasping wheeze escapes him. He tries to look around, but his neck won’t obey him, and all he sees is plain-looking wallpaper and gleaming hardwood floors.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that,” the man says, sounding only slightly teasing. His voice is young, Leo notices, and accented, but Leo can’t make out the accent. It sounds like a blend of several accents, both from foreign languages and Spanish dialects, and Leo suspects it’s such a mix on purpose so that you can’t tell where the man is from.

“You had gunshot wounds to your right leg, left arm and stomach, as well as a head wound that needed thirty-seven stitches, three broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, and you were in danger of a ruptured spleen,” the man recites off his injuries in a calm, unaffected voice. “You have other injuries too, severe bruising and some ligament damage, but those are the worst. I had a…friend look over you, a qualified doctor, rather than taking you to the hospital. I don’t think you would have liked to answer their questions, and truth be told, I wouldn’t have wanted to either.”

“Who are you?” Leo repeats, mustering up every little reserve of strength to gasp out the words.

“My name is Cris,” the man says. “I guess I should tell you that you’re in my house.”

Then he steps into view. Leo doesn’t recognize him, which makes him both relieved and alarmed at the same time. No ordinary civilian would take in a half-dead stranger lying in a pool of blood. This man has to be an agent or something, and Leo wouldn’t trust him as far as he can throw him.

“I told you my name,” Cris (if that’s really his name) says, giving a smile that Leo notes is meant to charm. “Shouldn’t you tell me yours?”

Leo doesn’t reply, just stares at him, at his tan, handsome face and chocolate brown eyes, the faint scar through his left eyebrow that would be unnoticeable to most people, the spiked up hair that is maintained by what must be an expensive gel, the—

“You know, didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to stare?” Cris asks, obviously amused.

“Yes,” Leo says, his voice finally coming back to him, although it hurts his throat to speak. Ramos’s chokehold had done more damage than he thought. “But I don’t listen to just anyone.”

Cris laughs, the sound surprisingly warm. “You and I have at least one thing in common then.”

He turns around, and Leo can’t help but think of every step he can do to take him down, completely relaxed and off-guard as he is. He wouldn’t even see it coming.

“Do you want some water?”

Too bad Leo can’t even lift his arm right now, not to mention fight.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Cris walks off, his steps too light and agile to belong to just a civilian.

Leo watches him with narrowed eyes, trying to match up Cris’ appearance to all the agents he knows, but he draws a complete blank again.

“You shouldn’t strain yourself too much,” Cris calls from what Leo assumes is the kitchen. “You’ll reopen some of those thirty-seven stiches at this rate.”

“How did you know—”

Cris grins, reappearing with two mugs in his hands. He’s wearing a watch on his left wrist, and there is a strip of untanned skin on one of his fingers that suggests the usual presence of a ring. “I can hear you think from a mile away.”

“I have to think,” Leo mutters under his breath.

“Well, thinking is great and all, but don’t pop a blood vessel.” Cris sets one of the mugs in his hand on a coffee table beside Leo. “I hope you don’t mind, but you’re on the couch for now. It’s not exactly furniture shop condition, but it’s always been great to sit on, so I figured you’d be comfortable.”

He smiles again, and Leo senses this one isn’t supposed to be charming or dazzling, it just is. “I have to get back to work, but I’ll be right in my study, so just yell if you need anything.”

Leo thinks that a) he can barely talk, so how can be yell and b) he can’t stay in here much longer, he just can’t. There’s no way he can wait until he’s fully recovered. God knows how long that’ll take.

“Right, that’s stupid of me,” Cris says, as if he can read Leo’s mind. “You can’t yell, with your throat in that condition.” He brightens suddenly. “I’ll just bring my laptop down and I’ll work here.”

Leo shakes his head, meaning _you shouldn’t do that_ and _I’d rather be alone_. Cris seems to interpret it as _I don’t want to give you trouble_ (or at least, he pretends to), and he offers a bright smile, more plastic than the one before it, and a “Don’t worry about it, I have to take care of my guests, after all. What kind of host would I be otherwise?”

He’s hardly a guest, Leo thinks, he’s more of a prisoner than anything else, trapped here by his injuries and whatever drugs that must be flowing through his system.

“I’ll just grab my laptop and I’ll be right back,” Cris says. “I’d say ‘make yourself at home’, but…” He trails off, giving Leo an apologetic look, and is halfway to what must be the stairs by the time Leo blinks.

 _He’s fast_ , Leo thinks, with a hint of trepidation. It’s soon erased and replaced by wariness and suspicion, however, as Leo observes the way Cris moves, with obvious grace and nimbleness that only years of martial arts training could have instilled.

He’s also not bothering to hide it, either, which means that he either trusts Leo or he’s warning him off with a glimpse of his own abilities.

“Who are you?” Leo whispers, to the couch cushions, to the coffee table, to the tastefully furnished room that, needless to say, doesn’t give him an answer.

 

_~time lapse of however long it takes for Leo to mostly heal~_

 

Leo’s mouth falls open, for the fraction of a second, and then his expression is perfectly composed again. Or perhaps, ‘composed’ isn’t really the right word. He just looks…blank.

(Still, it’s the most emotion that Cristiano has seen from him so far, and that’s really saying something.)

“You’re—” Leo starts, and then stops, cuts himself off. “Cristiano Ronaldo… Ronnie.”

“Yeah, that’s what they called me in England,” Cristiano says. “It doesn’t have a very nice ring to it now, does it?”

He sees Leo’s eyes dart towards the door, and then the windows, his eyes moving so quickly that another person wouldn’t even have caught the movement. But Cristiano is still lethal, even if he had quit that lifestyle years ago, left it behind when—

No, he doesn’t want to think about that. He won’t. He’s spent years hiding from his past, burying it away, and he thinks he’s finally gotten somewhere semi-safe, where ghosts won’t spring at him from behind corners anymore, where he can have some measure of peace, away from the demons that seem determined to overwhelm him.

“You can go, if you want,” Cristiano says. “You’re a guest here, not a prisoner.”

Leo doesn’t answer, doesn’t even act like he heard him.

“You know, if I wanted to kill you, I could have done it a long time ago,” Cristiano says, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I could have just left you in that alley. That would have killed you. I didn’t have to nurse you back to health.”

“Then why did you do it?” Leo asks, quietly, the subtle hint of an edge in his voice.

“I’ve told you before.” Cristiano’s eyebrows furrow. “Any decent human being wouldn’t leave someone bleeding to death in an alley.”

“You’re not supposed to be a decent human being,” Leo says, and Cristiano laughs.

“Why? Because I’ve killed more people than the worst serial killers out there?”

“Because you’re like me,” Leo says simply.

Cristiano falls silent. “You don’t think you’re a decent human being?”

Leo shrugs, doesn’t say another word, and Cristiano doesn’t push him. He considers it half a miracle to even hear Leo speak this much.

“I did it because…you remind me a friend I had,” Cristiano says, slightly haltingly. “Two friends, actually. Two very dear friends.”

Leo just watches him with those dark, unblinking eyes of his, eyes that seem to suck in light rather than radiate it, unlike—

“They’re dead.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” Cristiano says softly. “Dead.”

“Did you get revenge for them?”

“What?” Cristiano stares at him.

“Did you get revenge?” Leo repeats. “On the people who killed them.”

Cristiano doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the question. He’s trained not to show a response to anything, and although he’s lost much of the mental discipline that’s been instilled into him, he wasn’t once one of the best for nothing. “What makes you think they were killed?”

Leo just shrugs. “Because that’s what happens.”

“I think you already know the answers to all the questions you’re asking me,” Cristiano says. “I may have left when you were just a rising star, but I know enough about the Blaugranas to know that they wouldn’t have sent you if you weren’t the very best.”

Leo doesn’t say anything, not that Cristiano expected him to.

“I don’t mean to be arrogant, but I made enough of a name for myself for any decent agent to know my life story. And you’re obviously far from just decent.” He waits for Leo to say something, anything, but he still doesn’t.

“Like I said,” Cristiano says. “You’re free to go, if you want.”

“And if I don’t?”

Cristiano’s mouth twitches up at the corners. “Then you’re free to stay until you get better.”

“It’s not safe for you to have me here.”

Cristiano doesn’t take it as an expression of concern, but rather yet another warning. “It’s not safe for you to be here,” he returns, and he leaves the room before the air gets too suffocating. Leo’s presence brings too many shadows from Cristiano’s past, and with every second he spends, the darkness is closer to consuming him.

 

“Do you like juice or milk?” Cristiano asks Leo absently the next morning. He had come down the stairs in bedhead and a faded T-shirt to see Leo sitting on the couch, the TV turned on to a muted football game.

“Juice.”

Cristiano wordlessly gets out a carton of orange juice and pours them each a glass. He almost makes a joke about how that explains Leo’s height, but he doesn’t think they’re at the joking stage yet, and so he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m making omelettes,” he says instead. “Do you want one?”

“Okay.”

“I hope you like cheese.” Cristiano opens his fridge, takes out some eggs, butter and a block of cheddar. When he turns away from the fridge, Leo is standing in front of him.

Leo holds out a wad of bills. “Here,” he says. “This is for…everything.”

“You don’t need to pay me,” Cristiano says, ignoring the money. “I don’t want your money.”

“Then what do you want?” Leo says, looking at Cristiano with clear, steady eyes.

A ghost of a smile flickers across Cristiano’s face. “What makes you think I want anything from you?”

“Because everyone wants something.”

Cristiano blinks for a few seconds. “I can’t argue with you there,” he says, and then asks, “So what do you want – mushrooms or peppers in the omelette?”

“What do you want?” Leo repeats.

“Personally, I like spinach or salmon,” Cristiano says, pretending to misinterpret his question, “but thanks to you, I forgot all my groceries so I don’t have either of those.”

“Sorry,” Leo offers, and Cristiano smiles because it’s the only thing he’s said that hasn’t been a question or a bland statement.

“It’s okay. So, mushrooms or peppers?”

Leo seems to think it over for a bit, and then he says, “Both.”

“Okay,” Cristiano says easily, and he opens the fridge again to get some button mushrooms and bell peppers.

“Cristiano?”

Cristiano remembers that he finished his button mushrooms a few days ago, but he finds some king oyster ones that he forgot about. “Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“You can thank me by helping me with the omelettes.” He notices the apprehension in Leo’s wide eyes, and he can’t resist a grin. “What, you can’t cook?”

Leo gives a minute shake of his head.

“You know how to beat eggs, right?”

Leo nods, slightly hesitantly. Cristiano almost laughs at how he can kill a man without a second thought, but he gets nervous over making an omelette.

“Then we’ll start you off with that,” he says, handing Leo a carton of eggs.

“Start off?” Leo echoes.

“Of course. You didn’t think you would get to live here rent-free, did you? I’ll teach you to cook. Trust me, it’s a lot easier to learn than martial arts or shooting.”

“I don’t think you would want to eat my cooking,” Leo says, just matter-of-fact, not self-conscious.

“Why? Are you going to poison me?” Cristiano teases.

Leo doesn’t reply, and some of the amusement fades from Cristiano’s face.

“You take everything too seriously.” Cristiano walks off, turning his back to Leo, to find a large bowl.

“You don’t take things seriously enough,” Leo shoots back. “I already told you, it’s not safe for you to have me here.”

“And I already told you – no wait, actually, I haven’t said this,” Cristiano says, pressing a whisk into Leo’s hands. “Look, I already quit this…lifestyle. But they’re right when they say you can take the man out of the mafia, but you can’t take the mafia out of the man. There’ll always be that part in me that’s trained not to trust anyone, to be constantly on guard, to live a life watching over my shoulder.”

Cristiano sighs. “But I’m tired of living like that. I walked out for a reason. I walked out, but I can never really walk away.”

“You shouldn’t be telling me this,” Leo says, perfectly still, the whisk looking like it’s about to fall from his hand.

“I shouldn’t have taken you in,” Cristiano says. “I shouldn’t have let you stay once you were well enough to go off. I shouldn’t be making you breakfast.”

“Then why are you?”

“How many times are you going to ask me that question?” Cristiano asks, with a half-smile. He can’t decide if he’s amused or frustrated. Probably both.

“Until you tell me the answer,” Leo says, as if it’s completely obvious.

“Well, you’re going to have to stick around to find out,” Cristiano says, and picks up a knife. He notices Leo stiffen out of the corner of his eye, before he starts chopping the mushrooms and peppers. “Do me a favour and start with those eggs now. You can find a bowl in the right hand cabinet.”

“Why would you want me to stick around?” Leo asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“I don’t know, I find you interesting.” Cristiano flashes a smile that has won him plenty of hearts. It doesn’t seem to have an effect on Leo, however.

“I’m not.” Leo reaches for the cabinet.

“That’s for me to decide.” Cristiano starts whistling a cheerful tune, which is the only sound in the kitchen for a while as Leo falls into silence again.

It’s not awkward though, strangely, or strained, and Cristiano takes it as a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I have an incomplete forced/arranged marriage AU that I have about 4k written for. Would anyone be interested in reading that if I were to post it?~~ **ETA:** Posted in the next chapter.


	8. You + Me = ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What?” Cristiano stares at his mom, his mouth gaping.
> 
> “I’m sorry, Cristiano,” she says, not apologetic in the slightest. “I made a deal with the Messis for the best of our companies.”
> 
> “A…a _deal_? We don’t live in the eighteenth century, Mom. Who the hell has arranged marriages these days?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the forced/arranged marriage AU I mentioned at the end of the last chapter. Like the last chapter, this is incomplete and will regrettably forever remain as such, so if that upsets you, please avoid this.

“What?” Cristiano stares at his mom, his mouth gaping.

“I’m sorry, Cristiano,” she says, not apologetic in the slightest. “I made a deal with the Messis for the best of our companies.”

“A…a _deal_? We don’t live in the eighteenth century, Mom. Who the hell has arranged marriages these days?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man.” Dolores has a stern frown that he recognizes all too well. “You will marry Lionel Messi, and that’s all there is to it.”

Cristiano clenches his jaw. He’ll be damned if he just gives in, but he knows better than to continue challenging his mom so directly. She’s not someone to be crossed, and he learned that at a young age. He’s had his share of rebellious phases, like any other person, but he knows that when she puts her foot down, that’s it.

“Cristiano,” she says, eyes softening. “You’re my son, and I love you. Something good can come out of this. You’ve been dating for years, and you’ve never been able to find someone to settle down with—”

“And what, this Messi person is going to turn out to be my soul mate?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says carefully, “but I know that he’s certainly not a bad person. At the end of the day, Cristiano, this is for everyone’s good—”

“This is for _your_ good,” he cuts her off. “Your good, and the Messis. This isn’t about me, or about him.”

“You can talk about it however way you want,” she says, unaffected by the barely concealed contempt in his voice, the way he’s faintly trembling with anger. “It won’t change anything. You _will_ marry him, and you _will_ consolidate the joining of our companies. Whether you’re happy about the marriage or not is up to you.”

“Don’t make it sound like I have any sort of choice in this,” Cristiano snaps at her, and then stalks out of the room, fire practically spitting out of his eyes.

He may not get to refuse the engagement, but he won’t stand by and do nothing while his life is being twisted by other people’s hands.

 

“Cristiano Aveiro?” Leo repeats, dropping the bottle of juice in his hand. It drops onto the ground, spilling over, staining the cream carpet with vivid red.

“Yes,” his father says, putting his phone down on his custom made Carpathian elm desk.

“I thought you wanted to arrange a marriage with the Rocuzzos.”

“The Rocuzzos have fallen out of grace, Leo,” Jorge says. “Their debt has finally caught up with them, and now they’re more broke than an unemployed commoner.”

“Commoner,” Leo repeats, hating the taste of the word on his tongue. What he would give to be a ‘commoner’ instead of an heir saddled with duties and expectations.

“We’re not commoners, Leo,” Jorge says. “This is not a day and age for royalty anymore, but we are the closest thing to royalty in the country. We own more land than the government. We probably have more money than them too.”

“You mean, you do,” Leo says quietly. “I don’t have anything, not really.”

Jorge fixes Leo with a piercing look. “Not this again, Lionel,” he sighs. “I thought we’ve curbed this teenage rebellion in you.”

“I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“Exactly.” Jorge raises an eyebrow like he dares Leo to argue.

Leo doesn’t, and Jorge gives a smile edged in satisfaction.

“I don’t think I need to tell you, Lionel, how important this union would be to us. How much it would benefit us.”

 _You mean you, not us. There is no ‘us_ ,’ Leo corrects mentally, with more than a hint of derision, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts. It wouldn’t do him any good, especially not against his father, who stopped listening to him years ago.

“I don’t even know him,” Leo says, the closest he can muster to a _please, don’t do this. Don’t make me marry a complete stranger so you can elevate your status and wealth._

“Well, you’ll get to,” Jorge says, almost cheerfully. “I talked it over with Dolores Aveiro, and we both agreed that it would probably be more comfortable for you two to spend some time together before the wedding. We’ve planned it for a year from now, so you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

“So you’ve planned everything,” Leo says, hollowly. Without asking him (or Cristiano, he assumes). Without discussing it with him. Without even mentioning it to him, like he doesn’t matter, like he’s just some pawn in their game of making it to the top. Not even a pawn, more like a piece of property that his father can just throw around and do whatever he wants with.

“You know me, Lionel,” Jorge says, already returning his attention to his phone. “I like my affairs planned and organized.”

Leo does know that. He knows that very well. He also knows that to his father, he doesn’t mean any more than one of his hotels or casinos – just another structure that he can put to use and benefit from.

“Dad—” Leo opens his mouth to tell his father that he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to marry Cristiano Aveiro, he doesn’t want to feel like he means nothing more than a business deal, but once again, his courage leaves him.

He’s always been an obedient son, quiet and well-behaved, with little hint of the ‘teenage rebellion’ that his brothers have shown in abundance. As a result, his father has grown to prefer him over his brothers, but all that’s ever meant to Leo is a tighter set of shackles, constricting and ever-present, and one of his greatest wishes is that his father would just let him go.

But he knows that’s not going to happen any time soon, if ever, and he’s grown to become resigned to his fate. Resigned, but not completely acceptant.

“Do be careful next time, Lionel,” Jorge says. “Do you have any idea how much this carpet is worth?”

 _More than me in your eyes, I bet_.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

Leo keeps his head down as he leaves the room, pointedly not meeting his father’s eyes, knowing that he will see no affection or apology in them.

He’s learned not to look for signs that his father actually gave a damn about him years ago, but still. It’s not easy to give up on your family, but Leo’s starting to learn that sometimes there really is no choice.

 

“Dolores,” Jorge says with a perfunctory smile. “It’s wonderful to see you again. How are things?”

“Very good, thank you for asking,” Dolores returns the smile. “And with you?”

“Excellent,” Jorge says crisply. “This must be Cristiano.” His eyes flicker to the tall young man standing behind her.

Leo studies Cristiano, who manages the barest flicker of a smile at Jorge. He’s handsome, Leo has to admit, although he looks a little too well-acquainted with hair gel. And not well-acquainted enough with sunscreen.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Messi,” Cristiano says (Leo notes that he makes an effort at cordiality but not sincerity), not making a move to approach him or shake his hand.

A frown carves itself into Jorge’s forehead.

“Don’t be rude, Cristiano,” Dolores admonishes. “I apologize, Jorge, Cristiano is…very headstrong. I should warn you now.”

Jorge laughs. “I wouldn’t expect any less. Lionel still has some of that youthful rebellion in him too. You know how it is.” He fixes Leo with an even look. “Lionel, where are your manners?”

“I’m sorry,” Leo mumbles, even though he really isn’t. “Mrs. Aveiro, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He walks up to her, small, stiff steps, and offers his hand.

She takes it and shakes it firmly, so firmly that he almost winces. “See Cristiano, this is how you should behave,” she chides her son, who doesn’t even look at her. “Lionel, I—”

“Leo,” he says mildly.

“Hmm?”

“I prefer Leo.” With a glance at his father’s raised eyebrow, Leo adds, “Thank you.”

“Leo,” Dolores corrects, with a small smile. “That is easier on the tongue.”

 _Well, whatever is easier for you_ , Leo thinks bitterly, but of course, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he just gives a tight-lipped smile, eyes wondering involuntarily to Cristiano, who’s staring out into space, his face taut and wiped clean of expression.

Jorge clears his throat. “You know, it’s probably very boring for you kids to stay here and listen to us talk,” he says, as if they’re teenagers who can’t stay still. “Why don’t you go out and grab some coffee or something?”

Surprisingly, Cristiano speaks up. “That would be lovely, Mr. Messi.”

Jorge smiles, a thin one of satisfaction that Leo recognizes with a tingle of foreboding. “Lionel, why don’t you show Cristiano the nice café down the street? You can start to get to know each other.”

Leo knows his father is really saying _behave and leave a good impression_. He gives a minute nod. “Cristiano—” he starts, and then hesitates, wonders what he should say. Although Jorge voices it like a suggestion, Leo knows it’s actually an order, one he won’t defy. But he can’t exactly order Cristiano around.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Cristiano says, with a smile so grim it looks closer to a grimace.

It sounds like a promise and a warning all in one.

“Okay,” Leo says, and then bids goodbye to his father and Dolores because he’s been trained to be a well-behaved son, and that’s what he does best these days, follow orders like a dog who’s been kicked too many times to bark again.

 

“I didn’t sign up for this, okay?” Cristiano says as soon as they sit down.

“What?”

“I didn’t sign up for this engagement,” Cristiano clarifies. “I don’t want to marry you.”

Well, that was blunt. “Okay,” Leo says, after a moment. “I didn’t sign up for this either.”

“I don’t have anything against you. I don’t know what kind of person you are, and frankly, I don’t care. What I’m against is this marriage.”

“I’m not exactly counting down the days either,” Leo mutters half under his breath, already not liking Cristiano’s presumptuous attitude.

Cristiano laughs, and it’s a startlingly warm sound. “Your parents forced you into this too, didn’t they?” He asks the question with the tone of someone who already knows the answer.

Leo looks at Cristiano, slightly surprised, wondering how he could have known. Was it obvious in the way he deferred to his father without question? Has Cristiano heard things about his family? Does Cristiano even know anything about Leo at all? Leo sure doesn’t know anything about him.

“They’re all like that,” Cristiano scoffs. “They don’t care about what we think. They just want to use us as a means to their end.”

“I didn’t know it was like that for you too.”

“It’s like that for everybody. Well, sometimes people luck out and they have nice, understanding parents, but nice, understanding people can only make it so far up the business ladder.”

Leo can’t remember the last time he heard something so true. “This is just business to them.”

“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and there is a seed of bitterness in his eyes rooted so deep Leo is almost afraid to look at him. “ _We’re_ just business to them.” He bites his lip, determination flaring in his eyes, a flame coming to life. “And I’m sick of it. I want to live my life on my own terms, not just be a pawn in their game. The first step is getting out of this marriage. And for that, I need your help.”

He looks at Leo then, and his eyes are so dark they’re almost black and yet shining with a feverish kind of light. “Will you help me, Leo?”

There’s something about the way Cristiano says his name, like he’s trying to test something. Whether the test is for Leo for himself, Leo doesn’t know.

“Why should I?” Leo asks, unable to hold back the weariness in his voice. It’s not that he doesn’t want to live his own life, but after a lifetime of being under his father’s thumb, he really doesn’t know how he can overturn things now. Too little, too late, Leo thinks. It is truly too little, too late when it comes to resistance.

Cristiano doesn’t look surprised or offended or anything negative, really. Instead, he fixes Leo with his deep, intense eyes. “Because,” he says. “If you don’t help me, you’re just helping them.”

The words strike Leo like a physical blow. “I just don’t think there’s much we can do,” he says, knowing how pathetic he sounds, like a spineless quitter, but—

What _can_ they do? Put their foot down and say no? Run away at the aisle? No matter what they do, it’ll just end up hurting them more than their parents.

“So you’re just going to give up?” Cristiano’s voice is quiet, not angry, but there is something in it, a sense of condescending mockery, that makes Leo want to yell at him.

“You don’t know my father. You don’t know the kind of person he is. This isn’t going to do us any favours, okay? He will get what he wants, one way or the other.”

“You’re right,” Cristiano says slowly. “I don’t know the kind of person your father is. But I’m starting to get an idea of the kind of person you are.” He shakes his head slightly, a shutter falling over his eyes. “I didn’t know that my future fiancé was such a coward.”

Leo opens his mouth to tell Cristiano how he can’t judge him without having been in his shoes, how he’s not exaggerating about his father, how he wishes he could do something to help but he knows that all he’ll do is let Cristiano down, just like all the other people he’s let down in his life.

Then he shuts his mouth and drops his head, avoids Cristiano’s dark, piercing eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, the only thing he can offer. “I just – you don’t understand.”

“No,” Cristiano says quietly. “I don’t.”

They sit and sip their cooling coffee in silence, and Leo can almost feel the collar his father has on him tighten, threatening to choke him along with all the unsaid words in Cristiano’s pejorative gaze.

 

“So how do you like your fiancé?” Dolores asks conversationally over dinner. They’re sitting at either end of their dining table, which is large enough to seat twenty, with the effect that Cristiano feels like they’re in two separate rooms. Or perhaps two separate worlds.

“Can you not call him that?”

Dolores raises an eyebrow. “Cristiano, you know that—”

“I know,” he says brusquely, cutting her off, “but a) that doesn’t mean I have to like it, and b) we’re not technically engaged yet, so he’s not technically my fiancé.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” he echoes grudgingly.

“So I take it that you’re not very fond of him,” she says with amusement, taking a sip of her wine.

He just grunts. He can’t exactly go into detail about why he doesn’t like Messi. His mom would probably love how quiet and compliant he is. God knows that Cristiano isn’t.

“And why does he bother you so much?”

“Just not my type,” Cristiano says, digging his knife into his bacalhau with a lot more force than necessary.

“If the food is not to your liking, I can have Renato prepare something different.”

“It’s fine,” Cristiano says curtly, and then he softens involuntarily as he notices almost all of his favourite dishes. “Thank you.”

“Cristiano,” Dolores sighs. “I know that you hate me for making you do this, but please, try to see it from my perspective.”

“I don’t hate you, Mom, but I hate that you’re making me do this.”

“You’re not interested in taking over your father’s business at all, are you?” she asks, putting down her wineglass, which makes a sharp, delicate clink as it hits the table.

Cristiano almost flinches at the mention of his dad. She almost never brings his dad up, which is exactly how both of them like it.

“I’m just asking you,” Dolores says. “I’m not going to get angry at you if you say no.”

“You already know what my answer is.”

“Why do you make life so hard for me, Cristiano?” she sighs, sliding her hand slowly over her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Everything that I do is for you. I work my fingers to the bone keeping up this business so I can one day give it to you. I want you to have everything. I want you to be able to give your children the kind of life I gave to you.”

“If you want me to have ‘everything,’ isn’t part of that happiness?” he asks her. “You know the kind of person I am, Mom. And you know that money can’t buy happiness, especially not for me.” He pauses, lets his lips curl up in a smile so bitter it’s almost poisonous. “But money can drive away happiness.”

He meets her eyes squarely, and despite the distance, both physical and emotional, between them, something monumental exchanges between them in that instant.

“Yes, I know I’m far from an ideal son. I go out partying, and I sleep around, and I have no interest in the family business. But you know why I do that stuff? It’s because I’m not happy. I’ve never been happy living this kind of life, and it’s not like you don’t know that. It’s not like you haven’t done whatever you could to keep me feeling exactly this way, so you could have me under your control.”

“Cristiano—” For a second, Dolores is simply his mom rather than Maria Dolores dos Santos Aveiro, tycoon and corporation leader.

“You already took away my love once,” he says. “Now you’re taking away the chance of me ever finding a new one. I’m your _son_ , Mom. Your _son_.”

The second drags on for one heartbeat, two, and Cristiano wonders if the emotion trembling in his voice – starting out as carefully rehearsed, but becoming genuine and full-bodied as he keeps talking – is enough to finally make her bend.

“You keep talking about love. What about your love for your parents, Cristiano? Do you not remember the promise you made to your father before he left us?”

A muscle jumps in Cristiano’s jaw. He can’t believe that she’s stooping so low, that she would bring _that_ up now.

“I remember,” he says in a low voice. “How could I forget?”

“You promised that you would take care of me and the business,” she reminds him. “You promised that you would bring the corporation to new heights, and you would be a good son who wouldn’t let his mother down. Did you forget that promise already?”

“I promised to take care of my mother: a kind, caring, loving woman,” Cristiano says in a low voice. “I don’t know where that woman went. You sure as hell aren’t her.”

He stands up abruptly, fighting the urge to rip away the tablecloth and make all the plates fall and shatter, turning this brief moment of ‘family’ between them into an upturned scene of chaos. Something stops him though, some remnant of the boy who had always wanted to ride on his father’s shoulders and hold his mother’s hand, and he stalks out of the room before he is taken over by that boy, or worse, by the cold-hearted man his mother would have been proud of.

 

_~time lapse of them getting to know each other~_

 

“Have you ever been in love before, Leo?”

Leo can only shake his head. It’s obvious from Cristiano’s expression that he has been.

“I have,” Cristiano says, confirming Leo’s beliefs. “And do you know what happened to him?”

Leo shakes his head again. “I’ve never heard…” he starts, and then trails off. Gossip flies like vultures after carrion in their circles, and Leo’s heard more than he cared for about Cristiano’s playboy habits, but he’s never heard of him being in a long-term relationship. Being in love.

“My mom kept it well under wraps,” Cristiano says, with a bitter smile. “His dad worked in one of our smaller companies, and I met him at this young leaders workshop. He didn’t know who I was, which was exactly the way I liked it. We hit it off, to put it simply. We started dating, always behind my mom’s back, even though I tried not to let that show. I didn’t want him to think I was ashamed of him or anything. I wasn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to introduce him to my mom; it was just that I knew she would never approve. He was pretty much perfect in every sense, but he was what she would call a ‘nobody.’ No wealth, no land, no power.”

Although Cristiano says everything in a matter-of-fact voice, like he’s reading a book, there’s a soft look in his eyes that Leo’s never seen before. It is the look of a man who was once submerged in happiness, Leo thinks. And who, perhaps, later found himself marooned in the harshness of reality with no way back to his oasis.

“I knew she would have done everything in her power to break us up,” Cristiano says, “and she has a lot of power.”

Leo feels a cold tingling sensation break over his spine, like someone slipped a bucket of ice down his shirt. Something must have happened with Cristiano’s ex, something huge and terrible, for him to have become so angry and defiant.

“One day, without any kind of warning, he just disappeared. Just like that. His whole family packed up and left. At least, that was what I heard. Nobody knew where they went, nobody had any contact information. Or if they did know, they didn’t tell me.”

“They just disappeared?” Leo repeats.

Slowly, Cristiano nods. “I made up all these ridiculous scenarios in my head. They were visiting long-lost relatives on the other side of the world. They were being targeted by the mob, and they had to join the witness protection program. Not once did I consider that he wouldn’t contact me one day, that they wouldn’t come back. At least, I thought that I could go visit him, wherever he was. I didn’t care if he was at the other side of the world. I would find him, and we would be together.”

“You didn’t suspect your mom had anything to do with it?” Leo asks, already having a good idea of what had happened.

“I had a faint suspicion. It took a while for my idealism to fade, for me to accept that maybe they weren’t coming back, maybe he wasn’t ever going to come back and I was never going to see him again.”

Cristiano exhales; a ragged, consuming sound, like his insides are deflating. Leo hesitates, but he stretches out his arm, puts his hand on Cristiano’s shoulder. It’s a light, tentative touch; he’s ready to retract his arm the instant Cristiano stiffens or flinches away.

Cristiano does tense up for a second, but before Leo can move away, he gives the faintest of smiles to Leo. “Sorry. It’s been years, and I thought that I got over him, but.”

“It’s not easy to get over your first love.”

“You haven’t been in love though.” Cristiano almost says it like an accusation.

“No, I haven’t,” Leo says, and he leaves it at that.

Cristiano’s smile grows just the slightest bit. It’s still tiny, barely enough to be called a smile, but it is devoid of bitterness, and Leo considers that an accomplishment.

“And,” Leo adds, “you don’t have to apologize. There’s nothing to be sorry about. I-I may not understand how you’re feeling, but…I want to try.”

Leo genuinely does. There is something about Cristiano, something about the wild flashes in his dark eyes, the cynicism in his crooked smiles, that utterly fascinates Leo. He feels like Cristiano’s a mustang amongst the obedient show horses that he’s been surrounded by his whole life, and he wants to experience what it’s like to be so free and untamed.

And also. There is something about the bitterness in Cristiano’s eyes, his smiles and his words, that makes Leo’s chest seize up. He doesn’t like seeing Cristiano upset, and he knows that it’s not like he can make much of a difference, but if he can, if he can help, he’ll do it.

“Thank you,” Cristiano finally says. “You know, all my life, I’ve been taught how to be a socialite, how to be a tycoon, even how to be an autocrat, but I’ve never been taught how to be a person.”

Leo feels like someone just opened a door into his mind and found a way to express something he’s wanted to say for so long but never knew how to. It’s astonishing how Cristiano can do that.

“There are two people who have taught me that, purposefully or not,” Cristiano says. “He was one of them. And you are the other one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three guesses for who Cristiano's past lover is.


	9. Give Me a Lift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elevator doors are closing when Leo sees the flash of a person running toward it, and then he presses the _open_ button, and—it’s Cristiano.
> 
> “Thanks,” Cristiano says affably, stepping into the elevator, and then his eyes widen slightly, as if he’s only just now recognized Leo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=109491#cmt109491) about two players trapped in an elevator.

The elevator doors are closing when Leo sees the flash of a person running toward it, and then he presses the _open_ button, and—it’s Cristiano.

“Thanks,” Cristiano says affably, stepping into the elevator, and then his eyes widen slightly, as if he’s only just now recognized Leo.

“No problem,” Leo says, keeping his eyes on the control panel. He suddenly regrets not taking the stairs. It’s not that he can’t stand Cristiano – unlike what many people think, and what the media always tries to paint, they have a perfectly fine relationship, not close but cordial and respectful – but he doesn’t really want to spend an elevator ride alone with him either.

He reaches to press _close_ , and Cristiano does the same. Their hands almost touch, and then they both stop with their fingers an inch from the button.

“You just can’t stop competing with me, huh?” Cristiano asks, and Leo has a brief moment of thinking _oh, so this is how it’s going to be_ , but then he sees the playful smile on Cristiano’s face.

“Yes, that’s my mission in life,” Leo says dryly.

Cristiano grins. “I knew you were obsessed with me.”

Leo’s snort is half a laugh. Maybe more. “You caught me.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Leo. Lots of people are obsessed with me.”

“I’m sure.”

The elevator doors close then, sealing them in, but Leo doesn’t feel the sense of trepidation he had when Cristiano had first walked in. Maybe sharing an elevator ride with him won’t be so bad.

“Which floor are you going to?” Cristiano asks.

“Eight. You?”

“Nine.” A beat. “One higher than yours.”

Leo rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t grace that with a reply other than to press _9_ for Cristiano. He remembers what Gerard had said about Cristiano – “he has an ego, that’s for sure, but he puts it on for fun too. He’s actually a pretty funny guy.” – and although Leo doesn’t really trust Gerard’s idea of funny, it seems that he’s finally getting a taste of Cristiano’s sense of humour for himself. It’s…interesting, that’s for sure.

“Thanks,” Cristiano says again.

“No problem.”

“So, what are you here for?” Cristiano asks conversationally.

“Talking about setting up a charity game.”

“Ah, for your foundation?”

“Yeah.” Leo glances at him. “You know about my foundation?”

“Of course,” Cristiano says solemnly. “I make it a point to know as much about you as possible. Have to keep tabs on my arch nemesis, you know.”

He sounds so serious that Leo falters, but then he sees that the corners of Cristiano’s mouth are twitching, and then his grave expression gives way to a grin. Leo can’t quite hold back a smile of his own, and he turns his face away.

“It’s a good thing you don’t talk about us like this in front of the press.”

“Oh, they’d have a ball about that. They’re obsessed with us enough already.”

“What, you don’t like the attention?” Leo regrets his words when he sees the shadow pass over Cristiano’s face. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, not really,” Cristiano says, voice quieter.

Leo swallows. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Cristiano shrugs. “It’s okay if you did. Everyone else does.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Leo repeats, more forcefully.

Cristiano gives him a look and then a slight smile, only one corner of his mouth pulling up. “Okay, I get it. You don’t have to repeat things at me. I’m pretty sure I speak Spanish better than you.”

Ah, and Cristiano is back.

“What are you here for?” Leo asks.

“Having a talk with some potential investors.”

“Investors?”

“For CR7 – you know, my fashion line.”

Leo keeps his expression blank. “Your fashion line?”

Cristiano looks uncertain, and then almost offended. “You don’t know that I have a fashion line?”

Leo makes sure to maintain a poker face. “I make it a point to know as little about you as possible.”

Cristiano stares at him like he’s forgotten how to speak Spanish after all, and then he bursts into laughter, loud and bright. His laugh is infectious; it makes Leo have to fight not to follow. It’s a surprisingly tough battle.

“Hey, Leo,” Cristiano says slowly. “Is it just me or has the elevator been at this floor for a long time?”

Leo glances up toward where the floor they’re at is displayed. It says _3_. It’s said _3_ for…a really long time. Way too long.

“It’s not just you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to get to the "we're trapped in the elevator" part sooner, but they refused to be distracted from their conversation. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I thought about continuing this and tried to write some more, but it didn't really work and anyway, I think this stands fine on its own so I'm just going to leave it here.


	10. Listen to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello?” he says listlessly, vaguely noticing Gonzalo leaving with a pat to his shoulder.
> 
> “What do you mean you’re quitting?” comes Cristiano’s voice immediately, sharp, almost angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=147379#cmt147379) asking for comfort fic after the Copa America final and Leo's announcement of quitting international football. I actually wrote this way back in late June, but I didn't get around to posting it here.

Leo isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there. The AFA has screwed up their flights again, but that doesn’t feel like it matters right now. Nothing really feels like it matters right now.

“Hey, Leo. I have a call for you.”

Leo raises his head, slowly, like the runner-up medal is weighing it down, even though he had wrenched it off as soon as he could. “What?”

Gonzalo is holding a phone toward him. “Call for you,” he repeats. “It’s Cris. He sounds pretty—insistent. I mean, you can probably tell since he called me.”

Leo wordlessly reaches for the phone. He doesn’t want to pick it up, really. He doesn’t want to talk to Cristiano – well, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but who knows what Cristiano would do if he doesn’t pick up.

“Hello?” he says listlessly, vaguely noticing Gonzalo leaving with a pat to his shoulder.

“What do you mean you’re quitting?” comes Cristiano’s voice immediately, sharp, almost angry.

“I mean that I’m leaving. I’m—it’s enough.” Four finals and four losses. Three in a row. Years of trying to live up to sky blue and cloud white only to vault face-first into the ground, trying to catch up to D10S only to constantly prove himself mortal. It’s enough. He’s had enough.

“Leo.” Cristiano’s voice softens. “I know that—”

“You don’t know,” Leo cuts in.

Cristiano laughs, quiet but caustic. “ _I_ don’t know?”

“Well, I mean.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to reach finals with my country? That’s true. I don’t know.”

Leo swallows a sigh. “Cris—”

“But I know what it feels like to lose,” Cristiano continues. “And people say that you lose as a team, but for us, we don’t, do we?”

No. No, they don’t.

“Leo,” Cristiano says again. “I know.”

“You don’t have Him though,” Leo says, practically a whisper. Him, capitalized, like a deity, as Maradona might as well be.

“Who?”

“Him,” Leo repeats. “They all want me to be him, expect me to be him. But I’m not.”

“Maradona?”

“I’m not,” Leo says, and his head falls forward like he can no longer hold it up.

“Leo.” Cristiano sounds—Leo doesn’t like hearing that tone in his voice. “You’re right.”

What?

“You’re not Diego Maradona. You’re Lionel Messi. And that’s—there’s nothing wrong with that. Not at all. They don’t even realize how lucky they are to have you.”

“Lucky isn’t the word I would use.” What has he brought them, except disappointment after disappointment?

“Leo,” Cristiano says, steel in his voice. “Listen to me. Listen to me, not them.”

“Why do you want me to change my mind?” Leo asks, frowning. Cristiano usually understands him, is one of the only people who actually understands him, and to have Cristiano so utterly against him is… Leo’s used to it on the pitch; he doesn’t need it off it too.

“Because you can’t just give up,” Cristiano says, like it’s a personal insult to him.

“I’m not giving up,” Leo says, even though maybe he is, and maybe that’s not a bad thing in this case.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m…” Leo trails off for a moment. “It’s enough.”

“And you’re not enough?” Cristiano asks, relentlessly pushing the way he does at goal.

“I’m not…” I’m not him. I’m not D10S. I’m not enough. “I’m not.”

“Leo.” There’s something in Cristiano’s voice that sounds dangerously like pity. “I’ve never known you not to believe in yourself.”

“Maybe you don’t really know me.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Cristiano says. “The Leo I know isn’t a quitter.”

The Leo he knows is tired, this Leo thinks. The Leo he knows lost more than a match in Chile, in Brazil, in America. The Leo he knows has had enough.

“Shouldn’t you be happy I’m quitting? Now they have one less area to compare us.”

“Happy?” Cristiano asks, like Leo’s out of his mind. “How could I be happy when you’re like this?”

Leo’s throat is tight. Something suddenly occurs to him. “What time is it over there? Shouldn’t you be—”

“I am where I should be,” Cristiano cuts him off. “Listen to me here, okay?”

“I am,” Leo says quietly. “I’m listening.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have twitter, come say hi [@sparksfIy7](https://twitter.com/sparksfIy7) :)


End file.
